Hanging
There
The dressing-gown cord half buried in his flesh –
The red wheals on his skin –
Those eyes –
—
And I can’t save him. Can’t get him down. Can’t get the air into his lungs. Can’t get to him five minutes before. Because that’s all it was. Five minutes. That’s what they said.
Those bloody bins.
My boy.
My precious, precious lost boy.
Epilogue
17 August 2016, 10.12 a.m.
29 days after the disappearance
The ferry sounds its horn as it picks up speed and heads out of Liverpool docks into the Irish Sea. The gulls dip and lift about the boat, calling and circling. Despite the sunshine, there’s a sharp breeze up on the observation deck, where Kate Madigan is standing at the railings, looking at the clouds, at the other boats, at the people on the quay, getting smaller and smaller as the ship pulls away. Some of them are waving. Not at her, she knows that – people always wave at boats – but it adds, all the same, to the sense of an ending. To the feeling that an entire existence is receding with the water, yard by glittering yard.
Because there can be no going back now. Not ever. She takes a deep breath of exhilarated relief and feels the bright air fill her lungs like a cleansing of the soul. She still can’t believe they got away with it. After all those weeks of lies, and concealment, and lying in bed at night, heart pounding, waiting for the hammering on the door. And even today, her hands were shaking as they drove up to the ferry terminal, expecting to see the police waiting, finally, to meet them. Barring the way to escape, denying them their precious new life. But there was nothing. Not that solid chirpy little DC; not that woman with the dull hair and the alert, clever eyes, and the questions that came a little too close to home. Nothing. Just a jovial PO man to check their tickets and wave them smiling through.
And they are through. The risks she took; the planning, the care, the anticipation of all those deadly treacherous details, it’s all worth it now. And yes, other people have paid the price, but as far as she’s concerned they got no more than they deserved. A mother who withheld love and a father who perverted it. Who can say which had caused the greater harm? Which deserved the greater punishment? Her grandmother always used to say that God makes sure your sins will find you out, and perhaps in this case it was true. The videos on his phone, the blood on the cardigan; neither could have been foreseen, but both were devastating. So whether by divine intervention, or her own, justice had indeed been done. The father caught in a mire of his own making and the mother in a snare that trapped her just as surely as it set her daughter free. And that was all that mattered, in the end: not who was convicted, but the fact of the killing – the belief in it. Because with that, all searching would cease. And as for the boy, well, she checked. Discreetly, so as not to draw attention. But then again, in her position, as his sister’s teacher, it was natural she’d want to know. And she did want to know – she wanted to be sure. And they told her he’s fine. More than fine, in fact. Everyone agrees it’s the best thing that could ever have happened. Because now he’s getting what he deserves too: a second chance. The same miraculous, odds-against, life-overturning second chance that she now has.
‘Mummy, Mummy!’
She turns to see a little girl running towards her, her face lit up with joy. Kate crouches down and holds out her arms, rocking the child tenderly and feeling her warm breath on her cheek.
‘Do you love me, Mummy?’ whispers the child, and Kate draws back and looks at her.
‘Of course I do, darling. So much. So very, very much.’
‘As much as your other little girl?’ There’s a little wobble of anxiety in her voice.
‘Yes, darling,’ says Kate softly. ‘I love you both just the same. My heart was broken for a while, when she died, because she was so ill and I couldn’t save her. Whatever I did, however hard I tried. But I can save you. No one will ever hurt you again,’ she says, reaching to caress the child’s soft red curls that are now so like her own. ‘Because I’m your mummy now.’
‘Nobody else would’ve believed me,’ whispers the little girl. ‘No one except you.’
Kate’s eyes fill with tears. ‘I know, darling. It makes me so sad you had no one else you could talk to – no one to love you like you deserve. But that’s all over now. You’ve been so brave, and so clever. Taking those gloves, saving the tooth you lost – I would never have thought of any of that.’
She takes the child in her arms again and holds her, tighter now. ‘I promise you they will never find you. I will never let you go. You won’t forget that, will you?’
She feels the little girl shake her head. ‘So,’ she says, wiping her eyes and taking the little girl’s hand, ‘shall we say a last goodbye to England?’
They go to stand by the railing, in the sunshine. The little girl is round-eyed with excitement now, pointing, laughing, waving to the ferry that chugs past them going the other way.
A few feet along the deck, an elderly lady is sitting in her wheelchair, blankets tucked round her knees. She looks kindly at the little girl. ‘You’re having a nice time, so you are.’
The child looks across at her and nods vigorously, and Kate smiles. ‘We’re on our way to Galway,’ she says gaily. ‘I’ve got a new job there. Sabrina has been looking forward to this ferry trip for months.’
‘Sabrina?’ says the woman. ‘Now that’s a pretty name, so it is. It has a nice meanin’ too. I always say it’s good to have a name that means somethin’. Did your mammy tell you what it means?’
The little girl nods again. ‘I love it. It’s like a secret. I like secrets.’
And then she smiles. A charming gap-toothed smile.
Acknowledgements
Oxford must be one of the most fictionalized cities in the world, so you can imagine my trepidation in daring to add to the number of novels – and specifically crime novels – written about the place I’m lucky enough to live in. I hope the Oxford of Close to Home will ring true to anyone who knows it, and my readers will certainly be able to find many of the roads and buildings I mention on a map of the city – though it is also worth noting that many of the side streets and other specific locations are my own invention. And, of course, any resemblance to the real people who live here is entirely coincidental. Twitter usernames have been created with sixteen or more characters to prevent any accidental identification with real accounts. If there is any similarity to real individuals’ usernames, this is not intentional.
—
A few words of thanks to the people who have helped to make this book happen. First to my amazing agent, Anna Power, and my delightful editors at Penguin, Katy Loftus in the UK and Sarah Stein in the US, and also to my eagle-eyed copy-editor, Karen Whitlock. To my husband, Simon, for saying ‘Why don’t you write a crime book?’ on that beach in the Caribbean. And to my dear friend Stephen for being, as always, one of my first readers.
As for the professionals, I’d like to thank Inspector Andy Thompson for his hugely helpful observations and advice, and Joey Giddings, my very own and very knowledgeable ‘CSI’. I’ve learned so much from both of them, and Close to Home is a much better book as a result.